Tango and the Knife (revision2) Options

[RC James]

(Revision2)



The compass points south
to the knife, the guitar,
deep song,
and the furtive assassin

The dagger readily cuts
through passion.
The shadowy blade
wielder,
or rather, the myth,
reflects the low life
around it.
In the alleyway,
slinky, stealthy moves
possess the killing ground,
mythologies dissipate,
switchblades
lose their owners
to blaring sirens.
The dagger makes no sound,
it weighs
on the assassin,
flashes to the heart
as time; the dead live
in the tango.
Now gone, past renewal,
laid down rope-wise,
thorough benediction,
they live inside the dance,
in the tone of the guitar,
in lucid now,
in what has been ignored,
and what is now uncovered.








Glinting under
a fugitive moon,
the knife slices
through passion;
the spectral defiler,
cloaked in myth,
cuts through low life
around him.

In the alleyway,
the blade’s shine
challenges the sky,
mythologies dissipate.
The dagger
weighs on the assassin.
He apprises
the razor edge
with a wary thumb,
then, silently,
lacerates time,

The dead live in the tango,
laid down rope-wise,
under thorough benediction,
they live inside the tango,
in the tone of the guitar,
in lucid now,
in what has been ignored,
what is now uncovered.




(orig.)

A blade,
in faint shadows
under a fugitive moon,
slices through
distorted passion,
frenzied low life.
In the alleyway,
alien wasteland,
the blade’s shadow
torments the sky.
The assassin savors
the blade’s edge
with an anxious thumb.
Then, without a whisper,
he lacerates time,
the beating heart.
The dead,
past renewal,
under thorough benediction.
live inside the tango,
in the tone of the guitar,
in lucid now,
in what has been ignored,
what is now uncovered,
courage, deep song,
and the assassin’s blade.

[Ali zonak]

The knife readily cuts
through edgy passion,
the shadowy knife
wielder,
or rather, the myth,
reflects the low life
around it.
In the alleyway,
alien wasteland,
dark shadows
torment the sky,
mythologies dissipate.
Those whose theme is knives
lose their way
to pólice sirens.
The dagger makes no sound,
it weighs ponderously
on the assassin,
its flash to the heart
is only time,
the dead live in the tango.
Past renewal, well gone,
laid down rope-wise,
under thorough benediction;
they live inside the tango,
in the tone of the guitar,
in lucid now,
in what has been ignored,
what is now uncovered.

It would seem to stay,
this myth of courage, deep song,
and the assassin’s blade.

Good Morn to you, R.C. James; (sorry about the mix-up, dangit!)
I have been reading, even admiring your reflective free-verse. I pick up some profound images coursing throughout your work, but I must confess that some of the message is beyond my comprehension--entirely due to my lack of understanding abstract thoughts. There seem to be two schools of thought in the realm of poetry: one, that a poem should tell a story in plain words (which I personally adhere to) and the other, that a poem should contain metaphors that will cause the reader to ponder and arrive at his own conclusion. I look at your write and think that its key to understanding lies within my grasp; but then, it's gone. Well, what do I expect from the mind of an 82-year old fellow, lol.
R. C., your poem is a well-written challenge to this reader. And, unlike Daniel, I still tango--in slow motion. Take care, Ali